


Come Home

by underscoredom



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Implied Relationships, M/M, They want the same thing, more bedroom scenes (not in that way tho)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underscoredom/pseuds/underscoredom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To you. Who am I to you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> I should perhaps warn you that this was written in the midst of combining the right amount of exposure to One Republic's Come Home, while undergoing pms (ola TMI Tuesday). Partly un-beta'd, so I do apologize for that. Any and all comments/critiques are always welcome. Thank you for reading

"Who am I?"

"What, is this some kind of trick question Bruce-"

"To you. Who am I to you?"

Silence, nose is sniffled, throat is cleared. Clint plays with the soles of his feet, runs his hands across; it gives his hands something to do. Can't look at Bruce because not only will he be looking at Bruce, he'll also be looking at himself, reflected in those eyes, weary from lack of sleep, from worry. He doesn't know who he should be honest to.

Bruce frowns; Clint can't meet his eyes and that alone speaks volumes. He knows nothing and everything so he lets the silence linger, save for the creaking of the bed springs. He stops shifting, stops the sound. Silence lingers and it's so quiet, so unbearable but Clint won't look at him and that tells him so many things but he doesn't know which one is the right one.

Throat is cleared, spring creaks. Clint doesn't know the answer to that question because they started this- this whatever, this vague whatever- with silence, an unspoken agreement. Once in a while turned once a week turned twice a week; mutated into a routine of dinner, brunch, late night experiments and late nights marathoning TV shows downloaded while they were out kicking ass. Routine turned into everyday until Clint wasn't just sucking Bruce's cock; he's kissing his stomach, kissing his chest (right where his heart is), kissing his lips and that was dangerous, he knew it was dangerous but he wanted it and he let himself have it.

Then suddenly, it wasn't about sex, or rather, it still was, but not about releasing tension or being bored or thinking _shit, Banner looks hot just before he Hulks out_. Sex was still there; it could have been about sex but there were mostly late nights, nights almost like this, except it'd be filled with their voices, whispering, choking back loud laughter, shushing, mingling. Words minced and expounded and added and deepened and Clint let himself want that too.

He should throw the question back at Bruce but he knows Bruce's answer, knows that he feels the same way, maybe even deeper, maybe something more permanent or unchanging and Clint doesn't know how to answer Bruce's question because Bruce feels the same way but so much more. What does that make him? Shouldn't Bruce be with someone on the same level as him? Someone who'll be able to look at him straight in the eye and tell him: _Everything. You are everything and if you dare think you've turned into nothing I will shoot you in each ball._

But that's him already, isn't it? Or at least, he should be because, now, he can't imagine Bruce having someone else, can't imagine himself wanting someone else. That and because he has the equipment to shoot Bruce in each ball. He should try; has to.

(So he snaps his head, looks at Bruce, looks at his reflection, sees Bruce's determined _I know what I want_ glint, mixed with some sort of repressed fear, and that pushes him.)

A whimper, a sob, perhaps an apology. Bruce doesn't register any of it, has a hard time registering any of it because it's Sunday and he doesn't believe in God, but he is superstitious, despite his medical background. This qualifies, right? So he says _thank you, amen_ , the quickest and only prayer he knows. Silently, at first, when Clint takes a hold of his wrist, presses Bruce's palm to Clint's cheek, cold but soft and he strokes it with his thumb. Says another one, whispered, whimpered or maybe sobbed as Clint presses his lips against the pulse racing underneath his wrist. Watches, breath hanging, as Clint presses his lips all the way up his vein, all the way to his mouth. Watches, pupils blown wide, as Clint straddles him, cups his cheeks  and whispers _everything_ and everything he's always wanted to hear, always told himself Clint felt but just never said outloud. Speculation and observation turned into fact, gotten from a primary source and it's better, isn't it, to hear it from Clint's lips, than his own head? Word per kiss per word and yes, this is it, this is all he wants, needs. Who knew one reckless decision could lead to something so much bigger?


End file.
